Try not to laugh, okay? But I just signed up for half-marathon training.

I don’t run.

I have arthritis in my hips. I’m nearly asthmatic. I just don’t run.

And yet…I’m running.

Okay, let’s be real. It would be insulting to those who run to call what I’m doing “running.” But I’m out there. My legs are propelling me forward. I’m wheezing. It’s running, damn it.

What I want to say is this: You people who run? Stop lying. This is not easy, it’s not effortless, and you aren’t “slow.” I’m slow. You wanna know what slow looks like? Come run with me. Do not tell me you’re slow and then tell me you run an 8-minute mile. That may be slow for the Olympics, but it’s not slow.

Yeah, I’m even looking at you 10-minute milers. And you 12-minute milers. All of you can suck it.

Oh, I can run at a 12-minute mile pace. For about 8 minutes. Then I will die.

And the phrase “let your legs do the work” does nothing for me. Nothing. Either I don’t know what that means or you don’t know what that means, but it’s not helping me at all. I’m not running with my hands here. Of course my legs are doing the work. I fail to see how that’s making this any easier, unless you can devise a way that my lungs don’t have to get in on the party.

Also, that Couch-2-5K you’ve all been raving about? That is bullshit. I’m sorry, but that jump in week three or whatever where you go from running 3 minutes to running 12 minutes? That is not the stuff of couch potato land. And I’m not even a couch potato. And that’s on top of the fact that they pretend that you can do either the distance or time tracks and come out the same.

Let me break this down for you: If I can run at a 10-minute mile pace? You’re right. I can indeed run three miles in 30 minutes. If I am, however, a couch potato, I probably cannot run a 10-minute mile, NOW CAN I? So if I choose your time method (which is by far the easiest thing to do if I’m running outside and I’ll get to the evil that is the treadmill in a second), I’m just learning to run for 30 minutes and probably ending up about a mile from the finish line.

No thank you, sir.

Never mind the depressing fact that I could run for 30 solid minutes and still not cover three miles. Someone get me some happy pills!

Here are a few of things I have learned in this journey:

1. Save for a very few out-of-the-box thinkers, there is no one who knows what a “beginner” is in the world of running.

2. There is such a thing as running too slow, and it is killer on my calves.

3. When trying to run with someone else, it’s possible that you just might slow each other down instead of speeding each other up.

4. Not everyone was made for running. If you’re one of us (oh, yeah, I’m a BIG member), this will hurt more than a little.

5. Read up on running, but then find what works for you. This whole stop/start/run/walk thing? Ain’t my cup of tea. Also, I like distances not time. See above gripe about C25K.

6. The treadmill is evil. I am not a hamster and I do not want to run for 30 minutes and still be in the same place. No one ever ran a race on a treadmill. Grab your big girl/boy panties and hit the pavement. You’ll thank me later.

7. Get fitted for shoes. I’m serious when I tell you that shoes are more important than…well, pretty much everything. I mean, besides water and breathing.

8. Join a local running club. They’re usually pretty cheap, I think, and you could get some cool bonuses; coupons, advice, free races, etc. Plus, then you know there’s someone out there suffering with you (and if you think everyone else is having too much fun, drag one of your friends along). Having scheduled times to run with other people has helped me in the motivation department. Except on Saturday mornings.

If you think you might want to start running, it’s okay to start slow. Really slow. REALLY slow. Even if you can only run for 30 seconds, you can improve. And running is built with a beautiful reward system. Of pain. No, I keed. I don’t. It’s painful. But it’s easy to tell when you’re improving. A little more time, a little more distance, a little less feeling like death? Those things are all improvements, so reward yourself. With a massage, as all your muscles will be aching.

And not that you care, but this is my running plan (I’m starting today, so I have no idea if this will work, but I’ve tried all the “expert” advice and just feel like a failure):

Figure out how long I can run at my natural pace (which is about a 12-minute mile).

Run five days a week. Mondays and Fridays are for resting. Sorry, Christian God, I’m running on Sunday.

Add one minute to my time every time I run, if I can. If not, at least run as long as I did the day before. (This will pretty much equal out to me adding on 1/4 of a mile a week, which is pretty typical, and it’s just easier to measure the time outside.)

Walk the rest of the way, but do a full 35 minutes every time.

Anything I run on the back end is just bonus, and will be done after the 35 minutes.

Do this until I can comfortably run a 5K.

In two weeks, I will also be starting half-marathon training. I know that I can walk 13.1 miles, if I need to, so I know I can finish, even if I’m not a super duper runner yet. The idea of me training for a half-marathon is just…ridiculous. To me. But damn it, I am going to finish it, even if I have to walk.

Do NOT be fooled by that cute little puppy. This toilet paper is of the devil.

Okay, it’s probably not that bad. But it’s not good.

Dear Cottonelle,

I used to be an Angel Soft girl. For years, really. Then I discovered Northern triple-ply, which is like the 7th cloud of heaven for my ass (and costs as much as a five-star hotel room). The problem? It clogs the toilet even when there’s just pee.

Then I decided to try to be a good steward of the earth and use recycled toilet paper. Boy, was that a mistake. If triple-ply is the 7th cloud of heaven, recycled toilet paper is like the 7th gate of hell, complete with Satan’s claw for wiping your ass. Are the hippies just against that outer layer of skin?

That’s all to explain how I ended up at the grocery store, pondering my toilet paper decision for the first time in a decade. And there you were:

Look at the cute puppy! It has aloe! And so I purchased it. Damn you, marketing.

In all the years I’ve been wiping my own ass, I’ve never experienced this…aside from the scary one-ply in public bathrooms, maybe. The toilet paper keeps ripping. Like, there’s a hole in it and I end up with my excrement dangerously close to my fingers. How can this be, Cottonelle? You’re TOILET PAPER. This is your JOB.

Maybe you need to go back to toilet paper school? Did you just go for the associates degree? I’d like toilet paper with a masters degree, thank you very much. Do your job. I do not want poo on my fingers.

That is all.

Love,
Shine

PS – That puppy is still really cute. Please send him to me for hugs, because of my toilet paper trauma. Thank you.

The Friday before Halloween, I was supposed to go to HWLTFA’s ‘hood with my friend Elljay and watch some really terrible Halloween movies. Well, and The Great Pumpkin, which isn’t terrible. I had a plan. The plan was to come home, walk Cooper, play with Cooper for about an hour, get in the bathtub, relax.

Everything was right on schedule until the whole “get in the bathtub thing.”

I decided to light a couple of scented candles, for maximum relaxation. I started my bathwater and then realized it was high time to clean my hair. I left the water running and went to measure out my baking soda and apple cider vinegar.

When I came back and got in the tub, I noticed that one of my scented candles looked like this:

You’ll notice that the now bonfire-esque fire is completely contained within the candle tin. I noticed that, too. I thought to myself, “Self, that shit looks like a tiny bonfire! Should you put it out? I mean, what harm could it do in the bathtub in a candle tin, really? Just a little warmer than usual. No big deal.”

Ahem.

I was already in the tub and I didn’t want to get out. HOW BAD COULD IT BE?

Cue smoke detectors. Shit.

I leaped up out of the tub, ran into the living room with a towel and started fanning the thing. Once it stopped, I went back to the bathroom to put out the candle. But…uh, how? Cue smoke detectors.

Shit.

Back to the living room, still fully naked and dripping bath water, to fan the smoke detector again.

While I was doing that, I realized that the candles have lids, so I could probably just put the lid back on and smother the fire. Back to the bathroom.

The lid to the candle was pretty much the exact same size as the candle. And attempt to put it on either involved burning myself or tossing it like a horseshoe and hoping it would magically land perfectly and seal the flames.

I’ll let you guess how that went. Cue smoke detectors.

Shit.

Back to the living room to fan the thing. By this time I was ready to murder it. I stood up on this oak chest my father made me when I was a kid, trying desperately to get the battery out. I mean, I KNEW there was a fire, right? It’s not like I still needed this fucking thing to alert me. I’m good.

That’s about the time I realized that my apartment was rapidly filling with thick(ish) black smoke, from the candle.

I got the battery out, but…yeah, that didn’t stop the thing. I felt like Phoebe in that one episode of friends where she ends up putting the smoke detector down the garbage shoot wrapped in a wool blanket, because it won’t stop chirping. You know the one I mean, right?

I had to find a way to get the smoke out of my apartment, or I was never going to get the evil smoke detectors to shut up. So I flung open the balcony door and then raced to my room to pry open the windows.

Yes, I was still naked. The dripping of the bathwater had subsided.

Cue smoke detectors.

Now I was waving the towel at the thing in an effort to knock it off the ceiling. I had closed the bathroom door, so at least all the smoke was in there. The smoke detector hit the floor and I raced back to the bathroom…now thick with black not-so-pretty-smelling smoke.

There are so many things I care about. Here’s a list of shit that just doesn’t even really cross my radar:

HDTV – I just don’t care. It doesn’t really look that much different to me. The same things still happen. I don’t need to see every sweat droplet.

Aspect ratio – Most of the time, the aspect ratio on my television is fucked the fuck up. All of the time? I don’t even notice.

It took me AGES to get on board with this whole DVD craze. Why? Because I just don’t care. I can admit that DVDs are WAY more convenient, so I hopped on board, but the picture? I don’t even notice. You’re crazy if you think you’re going to get me to care about this Blue Ray nonsense.

3-D ANYTHING. UGH. Make it STOP, please. Yes, it makes me all shouty. I hate it. It makes me feel vomitous. WHY? And now they want to make me watch TV in 3-D? NO THANK YOU. GET OUT OF MY FACE.

The state of Brad and Angelina. Or Katie and Tom. Or really…anyone who’s not me and Sandra Bullock (poor Sandy).

Whether or not President Obama likes sea shells. Or birthday cake. Or what he does in his spare time (unless it’s majorly illegal).

That any politician cheats on his or her husband or wife. Seriously, it’s not against the law and I just don’t care. Do your job. Don’t be an asshole. Your marriage is really none of my business. (Caveat: If you’re a man who has railed against homosexuality and then you get caught balls deep in some guy’s ass (or vice versa)? I want to hear about it because you’re despicable.)

Being the first one to have whatever new thing. Please, work out all the bugs first, then we’ll talk. I’m looking at you, Apple and Microsoft.

Read it again, Sam.

If you tip the Sonic Girl…oh, hell, even if you don’t.

I write for you. I rap for you (that one time, but c'mon, it was awesome). I make you laugh.

If any of that inspires you to, say, buy me a virtual drink, clicking that button up there will take you to PayPal. I will send so many happy thoughts in your general direction.

This money will not go to help the homeless or feed the hungry, but it just might get me drunk enough to do stupid things for your entertainment. Or buy me sexy toys. Just sayin'.

Don't worry, I already feel like an asshole. But GingerMandy talked me into it (I'm pretty sure it was my idea. Because no one will do a telethon for me.) after she foisted a really complicated budget sheet on me and now my head hurts.